Odd Couples
by Fragilereality
Summary: Stories written for the Quidditch League featuring couples I wouldn't otherwise have written about! 1. An extraordinary love (Lily and James Potter) 2. The Great Escape (Minerva MacGonagall andElphinstone Urquart) 3. A Mother's Love (Bill Weasley and Narcissa Malfoy) 4. In search of gainful employment (Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley)
1. An Extraordinary Love

**Author's note: This is my entry for the Harry Potter Quidditch league - I had to write a story featuring the NOTP of my team mate - sadly James and Lily aren't my favourite couple either! Hopefully I can sneak some death eaters into the next round!**

Round 1: Not My OTP

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

NOTP written for Chaser 2: James/Lily

Word Count: 2800 excluding Author's Note

Prompts: 6. (word) apple

9\. (song) Dollhouse - Melanie Martinez  
13\. (word) liar

* * *

An extraordinary love

If anybody had told my eleven-year-old self that she would, one day, become engaged to James Potter, she would have called them a liar. My twelve and thirteen-year-old selves would have agreed. By fourteen, and certainly, fifteen I might have been a little less vociferous, but I would still have thought it unlikely ever to occur. I considered James a brash, boastful bully. At first I blamed these characteristics on his House. But as I grew to love being a Gryffindor, I began to realise that James' proclivity to be a bullying toerag was not, in fact, a prerequisite for wearing the red-and-gold striped tie.

By sixteen, though, things had changed. I no longer saw the Wizarding World in such absolutes. My friendship with Severus, who had been my mentor through my first years as a witch, had fallen apart. Voldemort's ascension had begun, and, for all my outward appearances of confidence and skill, I felt alone and adrift in the magical world. Of course, I had friends, but none were muggle-born. None knew what it was like to straddle two worlds. My relationship with my sister had all but broken down and my parents were in poor health and little able to understand my world.

James noticed me. He had been noticing me for some time. At first, I reviled him. I neither sought nor welcomed his attention and I considered his persistent efforts in asking me out to be nothing but a symptom of his arrogance. Then one day, a few weeks before my seventeenth birthday, everything changed, and a single act of clumsiness re-set the course of my entire existence.

I had come in late for dinner following an afternoon working on my potions project with Professor Slughorn. I loved the old man. Despite his flagrant nepotism and glory-hunting, there was something warm and avuncular about him. Of course, he only cared about me because of my talent for potions and, as he put it, 'potential for greatness,' but he did care. I admit that I soaked up his praise and affection like the Madeira cake soaks up sherry in the trifle of which he was always so fond. The only free spot at the Gryffindor table was next to Remus Lupin. I seriously considered going without my dinner. I didn't object to Remus in isolation, but I thought him too easily led by James and Sirius, and his inability to defy his friends aggravated me immensely. As I hesitated, James looked up at me, then across at the empty seat. He whispered something into Sirius' ear and they both laughed.

That was it.

I would not allow the Marauders to think me afraid, so I dropped into the empty chair and reached for the nearest platter of food without acknowledging any of them. They returned the compliment, and I thought to finish my meal in silence, when my sleeve snagged on a goblet of pumpkin juice and sent it crashing to the floor. Remus leaped out of the way as I leaned down to gather up the shards of glass. My cheeks burned as I imagined every eye in the Great Hall turned toward me. It was dark under the table and, in my haste, I sliced open the palm of my hand on a shard of glass. I recoiled in pain and took in great breaths of air as the room spun around me. Blood was trickling down my wrist and I could feel the colour draining from my face as if there were a direct conduit between the two. I swayed in my seat. Then, warm arms were around me. A gentle voice was asking, "what have you done to yourself, Evans?" James had elbowed Remus aside and taken control of the situation, a skill I would learn to admire as time went on.

The events that followed have become fractured in my memory. I remember his scent, of chalk, grass, and apple, as I leaned against the solid breadth of his shoulder. I remember being surprised that he possessed such a thing as a clean handkerchief when he pressed the fabric against my bleeding hand. I remember the sincerity in his hazel eyes as he asked if I was alright, and his concern when I was unable to answer, merely leaning weakly against him like some sort of pathetic damsel in distress. He half carried me to the hospital wing and sat with me during the interminable wait as Madame Pomfrey dealt with a student who had accidentally transfigured her foot into a music box. He held my uninjured hand in his as she brusquely healed my injury, and then he walked me back to Gryffindor Tower in silence. We stood beside the Fat Lady, still not speaking. I had been looking at his messy black hair and wide hazel eyes daily for the last six years, and still, I felt that, until that moment, I had never seen him before. I don't know which of us was more surprised when I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

Of course, that wasn't the end. It wasn't even really the beginning. But that isolated event was enough to change how I saw him and how I spoke to him, and from then on he redoubled his efforts in pursuing me. It was only a matter of time before I gave in.

When we graduated, I still wasn't sure about him. Even on the last day of school, after we had been a couple for over six months, and James knew enough of his feelings to take me to the top of the astronomy tower and offer me an engagement ring; even then, I was not sure. I cared for him, of course, and I knew that he adored me. James' regard was, in itself, seductive. It seems strange to compare my feelings for him to those for Professor Slughorn (and indeed I had no amorous feelings towards my Potions professor) but both of them admired me in a manner that somehow validated me as both a person and a witch. It would be so easy, I thought, as the wind whipped my hair across my face and uncertainty replaced the arrogance in those hazel eyes, so easy to take his ring, to secure my tenuous position, for once and for all, in this society I so longed to make my own.

But I wasn't sure. So much of my life, right from the moment that my magic had manifested, had been so extraordinary. It may sound arrogant, but I truly believed that I deserved an extraordinary love too. I wanted the sort of devotion about which songs are written. I wanted virgins to cry themselves to sleep each night in envy of my epic love story, and right then, eighteen years old and believing I had my whole life ahead of me, I wasn't sure that James Potter was the one. So I looked away, and I asked for time to think things through. James took it well, after all, I'd been running away from him for seven years, what were a few more weeks? He shook his hair out of his eyes, shrugged his shoulders and hid the ring away in his pocket.

"You are still coming home with me right?" Only these words betrayed his uncertainty.

The truth was I didn't really have anywhere else to go. My parents had died within a few months of each other toward the end of my sixth year. A reluctant Petunia had been my only family for the last eighteen months and, thanks in no small part to James' behaviour, my relationship with her was at an all-time low. I, along with Sirius and Remus, would spend the summer with the Potter family. I tried hard to think of myself as different from the other two lost souls who were so drawn to James' light, but as Mrs. Potter embraced me on the platform at Kings Cross, I felt like just another of his projects.

The Potter home was large, messy, and draughty. It was overrun with cats and dogs and brooms and magical artifacts of dubious provenience. It was everything my own, well-ordered Muggle home was not, and for that, I loved it. In that house, James was easy to love, too. Away from Hogwarts, bathed in the absolute devotion of his ageing parents, he was calmer, kinder and steadier. I could see the man I loved eclipsing the boy I had hated.

I could sense that his proposal still weighed heavy on James' mind. He was not quite as cocky as he had been before. He was more affectionate but less certain of my responses. I found it strangely endearing, and, I admit, somehow empowering. But still, I wondered if I would ever be able to give him the answer he longed for.

A week into that summer I was awoken from my sleep by silvery light flooding my room. It intruded beneath my eyelids, rousing me rapidly and I sat up in fright, reaching beneath my pillow for my wand. A silver stag stood before me, its head bowed low. I had never seen James' Patronus before, but I had seen his animagus form only the previous day. He had transformed in order to impress me, and had been successful in the act. Now I slipped from my bed and pulled on a dressing gown as the stag turned towards the doorway, glancing over its shoulder to see if I followed. It led me through the darkened house, and I wondered if this was James' way of securing a nocturnal assignation. He need not have been so circumspect. I had no doubts regarding the physical aspect of our relationship; my body seemed drawn to his as if we were two parts of those tacky best friend heart necklaces Muggle children purchase for their friends.

The stag led me not to my boyfriend's room, but to a part of the house which I had not previously entered, only to disappear through a closed door. A strange feeling of anticipation washed over me as I turned the handle. It was a nursery, or more accurately, a children's playroom. Toys littered the floor and were stacked on shelves around the periphery of the room, as if the last child to play there had simply dropped their toys and left only minutes before my arrival. Amidst the chaos stood James, his hair more adorably messy than ever, his pyjamas rumpled.

"You came." He picked his way through the toys and took my hand, his hazel eyes uncertain once more.

"Of course I came." I wondered what it was that was making him so nervous, and hoped he wasn't about to produce the ring again; my answer had not changed.

"I have something to show you."

"I thought you showed me that last night." My feeble attempt at humour caused little more than a raise of his eyebrow and I shivered a little. Whatever this was he was taking it very seriously.

I can't begin to describe my surprise when he positioned me in front of a dollhouse. Admittedly it was the most beautiful dollhouse I had ever seen. It was almost a metre tall, mock Tudor with white walls, dark wood beams and a large oak doorway which swung open as we approached. I had never possessed such a toy. When one has newly acquired magic at one's fingertips the urge to open the walls and create your own magic is less strong. Petunia used to spend hours locked in a make-believe world, whilst I explored the glorious reality of mine. Her dollhouse was as perfectly kept as any suburban home, but underneath that façade, her dolls lead tempestuous lives of adultery and addiction. I often wondered if this was her only way of deviating from the staid persona she had inflicted on herself from early childhood. Even had I not had my magical ability to occupy me I don't know if I would have dared to look through the window of her house, lest the powerful magic she had created subsume me.

This house was different. As my hungry eyes took in every detail, the strangest of feelings washed over me. Magic trickled over my skin as if I had walked through a powerful ward, and in doing so, glimpsed the future. I sensed something eternal, something inevitable, and then it was gone and it was just James and me standing in the cold nursery.

"Was this yours?" I asked, hoping to lighten the mood a little.

James gave a half smile. "I never played with it, but it's been in my family for hundreds of years." He paused and fondly patted the roof. "It's the exact replica of a house my family owns in Godric's Hollow." He looked away then, running his hand through his messy hair. "It's where we would live... if you say yes." He looked back at me, hope shining in his eyes. "The real house I mean, not the dollhouse. Don't say anything..." He cut off my unspoken response.

"Come inside before you make up your mind."

"I don't..." He cut me off again with the soft press of his warm lips on mine. I clung to him for a moment, my hand at the nape of his neck, when we were this close there was no need to think.

"Trust me." He pulled away but kept my hand held in his as he stepped right up to the house.

I had attended a magical school for seven years. I had been exploring my own magical potential individually, and with Severus, for years before that. I thought I had experienced every odd and unpleasant sensation that existed in the magical world.

I was wrong.

As James and I shrunk to the size of Barbie dolls, I felt as if I were being squeezed in a vice. Every single cell in my body was brutally crushed against another and I gasped for air as the oxygen was forcibly expelled from my lungs. Then it was over, and I was standing on the carpet of the nursery, staring up at what now seemed to be a life-size house. All around me the boxes and shelves loomed over us. A row of baby dolls reminded me of Mount Rushmore; a discarded shoe could indeed have housed a whole orphanage of children. I couldn't help myself. I laughed in sheer delight and James, caught up in my enthusiasm, swept me into his arms and carried me across the threshold of the house. The symbolism was not lost on me, and yet, in those golden moments, I didn't care.

We rushed from room to room. We disturbed clouds of dust and chased spiders as large as Yorkshire Terriers. We tripped over the spindly legs of abandoned, upset furniture and primly pretended to take tea at a long forgotten party presided over by a naked, one-armed doll.

Finally, James dragged me upstairs and we tumbled onto the only bed. We giggled at the absurdity of the situation as the dust billowed around us like fireworks… or confetti.

Later, we lay exhausted beneath a blanket neither of us could even have used as a handkerchief, had we been our usual size. I looked up at James' face, the firm curve of his jaw, the slight kink in his nose where it had been hit by an unruly bludger, his mass of never tidy black hair, and I knew. I knew that here, in this toy house, in a single bed less than six inches long, I had found what I was looking for. I had found that extraordinary love. This was the man for whom I had been searching.

Hogwarts had provided such an immersive environment that it had not really been possible for me to imagine a world beyond. This, coupled with the seismic rise to power of Voldemort and his Death Eaters made it hard to imagine myself living in the Wizarding World at all. Until this moment I simply could not picture myself and James together in the future. But suddenly, with absolute clarity, I saw it all: myself cooking in the kitchen, the two of us reading by the fire, James wrestling gnomes in the garden, and a small dark haired baby asleep in the corner of the room we currently occupied. It was more than a dream, more than imagination; in those moments I knew my future and I wanted it, I wanted it all.

James looked down at me, with that question once more in his eyes, but this time I was not afraid. This time I knew my heart, and my answer.

"Yes."


	2. The Great Escape

**Team: Pride of Portree**

 **Position: Chaser one**

 **Prompt: A fic inspired by the film Kick-Ass**

 **3\. (quote) For every problem there is a solution which is simple, neat and wrong**

 **4\. Headphones**

 **8\. Nurmengard**

 **Word count excluding author's note: 2937**

 **A/N Whilst I have tried to keep my references as accurate as possible for this story, it is an AU fic with a slightly warped timeline. I have disregarded certain facets of Minerva's backstory in favour of my own imaginings. The superheros referenced (Captain America and Superman) did exist during the time period in which my story is set. For those of you not familiar with Scottish sports, Shinty is an extremely aggressive form of hockey, a shinty stick looks like a hockey stick but is ten times more lethal!**

* * *

The Great Escape

 _With no power comes no responsibility._

His rubber-soled wellingtons made no sound on the wet cobblestones as he stalked his prey. He could hear them talking together, their voices blurred by drink and thickly accented, floated through the Edinburgh fog. Their potential for villainy had drawn him in, and motivated him to follow them still, despite the bleakness of the night and the fact that it was long past curfew. They didn't see him; in his experience people never did. It was a particular talent of his; to blend seamlessly with the background. He wished he had a more useful superpower, like laser beams that shot from his eyes or, at the very least, enhanced strength and healing capabilities.

There! His hunch had been correct. The two men had apprehended a young woman who had been scurrying home through the rain. She was pressed against a wall, her hair plastered against her face in pathetic rats' tails, her eyes wide and fearful.

"Help!" She put little effort into her cry. No civilian would be foolish enough to help her, and if _the Militia_ came– well, she was probably safer with her current assailants.

Elphinstone withdrew the shinty stick from its sheath on his back. This was his time, the moment he had been waiting for. This was his chance to actually be a hero. Yet, he couldn't move. His feet were glued to the pavement; his hands were trembling and sweaty in their rubber gloves.

The woman screamed again, forcing him into action. He attacked before he even knew what was happening. He swung wildly and his stick connected with jarring force against something solid. Vaguely he heard running footsteps, the woman had escaped! There was no sound then but the pounding of blood in his ears as he swiped back and forth. It was quickly apparent that, without the element of surprise, he was outclassed. Nonetheless, he fought on doggedly until he tripped, landed heavily, and heard rather than felt the bone in his ankle snap. He crumpled to the ground; this had been his first and last superhero mission.

He waited, head bowed, for one of them to strike the killing blow. Instead, there were screams and he opened his eyes in time to see a young woman, barely more than a girl, place herself between him and his attackers. Her skinny legs were clad in thick black tights, over which she wore a grey tartan kilt and a velvet jacket of the sort usually favoured by Highland dancers. She shot a beam of red light from a weapon concealed from his view.

" _Stupefy! Stupefy_!"

The men fell to the ground and the girl turned to face Elphinstone with a satisfied nod of her head. She tucked a long wooden stick into the sleeve of her jacket.

"Minerva McGonagall." She extended a hand to help him up.

"Elphinstone Urquart." He shook her hand briefly. "I'm sorry, but I think I've broken my ankle."

"I can fix that." She reached into her sleeve and leaned toward him, just as a ray of red light flew over her shoulder, barely missing the tight bun on top of her head.

" _Stupefy!"_ The voice this time was male and filled with conviction.

Elphinstone and Minerva both looked across the street to where a third man lay motionless on the ground and a fourth emerged from the shadows. He was dressed in a long trench coat and a bowler hat; he almost looked as if he should be carrying a briefcase and umbrella.

"Minnie," his deep voice was reproachful. "Where should your back be?"

"To the wall, Daddy, I know."

For a moment it looked as if she would cry and Elphinstone was struck by her youth.

"Robert McGonagall, Minnie's father." The man extended his hand to Elphinstone as his daughter had. "We need to skedaddle, there's bound to be more of them." Robert glanced over his shoulder at the man he had felled, Elphinstone realised belatedly that he wore the uniform of _the Militia_.

"We need to fix Elphinstone's ankle first," Minerva's voice was firm once more. "I'll do that while you _Obliviate_ the Muggles he was fighting."

Minerva removed the wooden stick from her sleeve. " _Episkey_ ," she muttered. A bolt of agony shot through Elphinstone's ankle and the world became fuzzy.

When he came to, he was no longer outside. He struggled into a sitting position and looked around. He was in a large room, the walls constructed from bare stone, thick beams across the ceiling and stone tiles on the floor. It was warmed by a cheerfully blazing fire, in front of which Minerva and Robert sat. Both held bowls of food, and they were talking quietly, seemingly unconcerned by the boy in the corner.

To his embarrassment, Elphinstone's stomach rumbled loudly, attracting the girl's attention.

"Elphinstone, you're awake." Minerva gave him a bright smile. "Come and have some stew." She gestured to the spare chair beside her.

"My ankle-"

"You'll find it's quite better."

He gingerly shifted his ankle and felt not even a twinge. Not quite believing, he moved it again. Nothing. Hesitantly, he got to his feet and took a seat next to Minerva.

"It was broken." He looked first at her and then the older man. "How did you-"

"You really don't know, do you?" Robert had removed his bowler hat to reveal a shock of red hair. The look he gave Elphinstone was sharp but not unkind.

"Know what?"

"Who or what you are?"

"I don't understand." Elphinstone looked between the two of them. He was tired, hungry, a little frightened, and more than anything, confused.

Robert looked at Minerva who gave a firm nod. "He's got potential, Daddy, I know it."

"Very well then." Robert filled a bowl with stew and handed it to Elphinstone. "Better get your strength up, laddie; it's going to be a long night."

"So, let me get this straight." It was well after midnight but Elphinstone didn't feel a bit tired; quite the opposite, adrenaline pumped through his veins. "You're a wizard–" He looked over at Robert "–and you're a witch." This was aimed at Minerva who nodded. "And President Grindelwald is also a wizard?" Both Minerva and Robert nodded in assent. Elphinstone stood and began to pace the room on his perfectly-healed ankle. "And the only wizard more powerful than Grindelwald is Albus Dumbledore, but Grindelwald has him locked up in prison?" Again, they nodded. Elphinstone ran a hand through his hair. This was the most fantastical, most amazing thing he had ever heard. "And," he continued, "because my name is written in that book–" He pointed across the room to a large parchment-filled book, which, he was assured, was bound in dragonhide. "–you know that I'm a wizard too, and you want me to help you break Dumbledore out of prison?"

Minerva cast a triumphant look at her father. "I told you he had potential."

Robert sat propped in an armchair; he was listening to the gramophone via a pair of headphones. His eyes were closed, but Elphinstone suspected he was still awake.

"So, tell me about this prison?" Elphinstone asked quietly.

Minerva gave a soft sigh. "For every problem there is one solution which is simple, neat, and wrong. For Grindelwald, the problem is Muggles and the threat they pose to our world. His solution is Nurmengard – a prison where he can lock away anyone who stands against him." With a flick of her wand the image of a stone castle, perched atop a tiny island amidst a stormy sea, was projected onto the wall.

"So how do we get in?" Elphinstone heard himself asking.

Robert opened one eye; clearly he had been listening all along. "That, my boy is where you come in."

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Elphinstone paused in his rowing and looked at Minerva who was perched at the prow.

"Of course. Daddy's plans always work." She didn't even look at him; her eyes were fixed ahead, her wand extended.

"What are you even doing?"

"I'm trying to detect the Anti-Apparition field. There it is! Drop anchor."

Wondering when his life had been taken over by an autocratic eleven-year-old, Elphinstone dug the oars into the oily water, bringing their small craft to a halt.

"Now we wait." Minerva folded her hands in her lap, the picture of contained patience.

Elphinstone fidgeted.

"Where is your father exactly?"

"Somewhere underneath us, I imagine. The only way to approach Nurmengard without detection is underground, so he'll have had to go deep. If he hits bedrock it will slow his tunnelling charm."

"And we're out here because-"

"Honestly," her voice was tart, "we've spent three days planning this, did you not listen _at all?_ "

Elphinstone shrugged; he had already learned the futility of arguing with her.

"We're to provide a diversion, nothing more. On father's signal we go in, create havoc, then run like the clappers. Meanwhile he and Dumbledore escape through the tunnel. I fail to see why this is _so_ difficult for you to comprehend."

Elphinstone's retort was interrupted by a wispy silver hare, which scampered across the water and leapt into their boat.

"Minnie!" Robert's panicked voice came from its mouth. "It's a trap, they were waiting for me - get out Minnie-" the hare was suddenly gone.

"Daddy!" Minerva's cry was filled with anguish, her face stripped of all colour in the moonlight.

"We have to help him." She started rummaging in the utility belt at her waist.

"Erm, didn't you hear your father? He said to get out of here."

She looked at him with the utter contempt of an angry pre-teen. "Do what you like, I'm not leaving him." She removed a handful of something from her belt and began to chew it. Elphinstone watched her, torn. Eventually he reached out a hand.

"Give me some too then." He almost gagged on the bitter flavour of the Gillyweed. An intense pain shot through his neck and seconds later he followed Minerva in a smooth dive over the edge of the boat. He braced himself for the sting of the frigid water and was surprised when it felt tepid against his skin. He breathed naturally through his gills, kicking his webbed feet and easily keeping pace with Minerva who led the way toward the island prison.

As the water began to grow shallower, Elphinstone concentrated on making himself invisible. It turned out what he had thought was a natural propensity to be overlooked was, in fact, a manifestation of a magical ability not possessed by many wizards, which allowed him to become invisible at will. He had spent much of the last three days honing this skill, and now, he felt the magic trickle over him as it encased his body. He stepped out of the water, confident in his own concealment and glanced at Minerva, just in time to see her blur into a silver tabby cat.

Crouched behind a large rock, Elphinstone and Minerva observed the huge metal doorway set into the stone wall of the looming prison. The door was guarded by the hulking figures of two trolls.

Minerva gave a soft miaow and streaked from their hiding place, twining herself around the legs of the monsters. They responded angrily, swinging clumsily at her with their iron-studded weapons. She easily evaded them and gradually led them away from the prison entrance. Elphinstone seized his chance and ran forward, pulling his shinty stick from over his shoulder. The previous evening Robert had gifted him with a new one.

"It looks much like the one you already have," he had explained, "but this one is made from the wood of a magical tree called a _Whomping Willow_ ; it should take out almost any obstacle you come across."

Elphinstone struck the door with all his might. It rang like a bell and caved in with the shriek of tearing metal.

Realising that every guard in the place had just been alerted to his presence, Elphinstone sprinted into the building drawing his invisibility more closely around him as he did so. Scores of guards streamed past him, heading in the direction of the gate. As he ran he forced himself to remember the prison blueprint which Robert had shown to both him and Minerva. As best he could, he headed for the dungeons. He had paused to catch his bearings and his breath when a small cat shot past his ankles.

"Minerva," he hissed.

She screeched to a halt and, without thinking, he scooped her up, engulfing her with his power, knowing instinctively that she would also be hidden from sight. She shot him a look of feline disgust but remained still in his arms as he crept closer to the prison cells.

His luck couldn't have held all the way. The door leading to the cells themselves was firmly shut and guarded by two more hefty trolls. Minerva tensed in Elphinstone's arms. He turned his back, pressing his lips against her furry ear. "On my count of three I'll drop you, you take the one on the right, I'll take the left, okay?"

She inclined her furry head.

He crept close enough to smell the troll's fetid breath.

"One," he breathed, "two, three." He hurled the cat towards them - she blurred in mid-air, drawing her wand and firing the _Stupefy_ spell. Elphinstone didn't wait to see if she was successful, he drew back his own weapon and struck the second troll across the face as hard as he could. The consequences of his blow were greater than he could ever have imagined; the troll shot backwards and hit the door it guarded, smashing it to splinters. Shocked out of his invisibility, Elphinstone faced Minerva across the empty corridor. In the distance they heard the sounds of shouts and running feet.

"Quickly!" Minerva yanked him through the splintered door. She pointed her wand at the remnants, " _Reparo."_ The door reformed with a crash and Minerva set off down the corridor with Elphinstone panting in her wake. She ground to a halt so suddenly he ran into her back. His words of complaint died on his lips as he realised why she had stopped; Robert McGonagall lay battered and broken on the stone floor.

Elphinstone watched helplessly as she bent over her father's body. Even he could see that their rescue had come too late. Other sounds began to filter into his consciousness. The shouts of the prisoners, and an insistent pounding on the door Minerva had repaired. He looked along the corridor. People were clutching the doors to their cells, calling out to him, imploring him to set them free. He ignored them for the moment, searching for one wizard.

"My boy," the voice caught his attention and he hurried over to cell it came from. A tall auburn-haired wizard, unkempt and dishevelled watched Elphinstone calmly.

"Mr Urquart." It was a statement not a question. "I am Albus Dumbledore, delighted to make your acquaintance." He reached out a hand between the bars. Dazed, Elphinstone shook it. Rapidly, he pulled himself together.

"If you would stand back sir, I'll open that door for you."

Within seconds, Dumbledore was free. He set off purposefully, somehow majestic despite his bedraggled robes and matted hair. "Ah, Robert." He knelt briefly beside the fallen wizard and laid a gentle hand on Minerva's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, my dear." Minerva continued to weep but wrapped her arms around Dumbledore's waist. Elphinstone looked around nervously. The pounding on the door at the end of the corridor seemed louder somehow and was accompanied now by a splintering sound.

"Erm, Sir-" he began diffidently.

"I hear it too." Dumbledore rose to his feet. "Minerva, I must ask a final sacrifice of -" he was not able to finish. Minerva had stood too, and offered him her father's wand.

By the time the door gave way, the situation in the corridor of cells had somewhat changed. The battalion of security trolls were met by an armed Albus Dumbledore, a recently bereaved Minerva McGonagall, a young man in a super-hero costume wielding the most lethal shinty stick known to man, and thirty very angry inmates. The outcome of the battle was never in doubt.

Hours later, Elphinstone stood with Dumbledore and Minerva on a windswept clifftop somewhere in Italy.

"I have to go." Minerva reached up to plant a kiss on Elphinstone's cheek. "I need to break the news to Mother." She pressed her lips together firmly and took a deep breath. "Thank you for everything, Elphinstone, you're a great wizard." She turned to Albus.

"I will see you soon." They exchanged nods before she disappeared with a pop.

"You will see her again, you know." There was a twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes as he looked down at Elphinstone.

"I hope so." Elphinstone bit his lip feeling strangely bereft. "I suppose I should be going too."

Although he wasn't sure what he was going home _to_. His foster parents probably thought he was dead; he'd been missing for four days already.

"My dear boy–" The twinkle became more evident. "There is no need to leave unless you wish it. There is much work to be done and the resistance has need of a wizard such as you."

"A wizard such as me?" Elphinstone repeated a little gormlessly.

"Of course, you didn't think you'd stopped being a wizard just because your first mission was over, did you? With great power comes great responsibility." He offered his arm which Elphinstone tentatively took, and together they Apparated away from the windy cliff.


	3. A Mother's Love

**Written for round eight of The Quidditch League: The wonderful world of headcannons**

 **My head cannon: Keeper, JailyForever, Harpies-Bill Weasley tried to cancel his wedding and would have succeeded without his mother's intervention.**

 **Position: Chaser 1**

 **Optional prompts: 8 - no Hogwarts staff to be mentioned,13 - paintbrush, 14 - possible**

 **Word count excluding A/N: 1438**

 **Thanks to my wonderful team mates for their support and beta reading. Thanks to JailyForever for an interesting prompt.**

* * *

 **A Mother's Love**

The stairs creak despite his hastily cast Silencing Charm. Bill pauses, every muscle tense, his ears straining in the darkness. He hears the ghoul moving around in the attic two stories up and Ron snoring loudly one floor away, nothing else. There are no shouting voices, no blaring sirens - no sounds to indicate that Bill Weasley is running away.

He clenches the handle of his battered suitcase more firmly and creeps down the remaining stairs. Once in the kitchen, he breathes a sigh of relief. The room is still shrouded in early morning darkness; it is strangely quiet without Molly clanking her pots and pans. He takes a final look around the ordered chaos. Reality hits him for the first time as he realises he might never see his family home again. He takes a deep breath. After today he will have a new family.

Whenever he falters, he reminds himself of her eyes. They are powder blue, like the sky over the Alps on a clear day. Sometimes they are the only indicator of how fragile she is. The rest of her is rigid and unbending. Only her eyes reveal her vulnerability, her fear, and only Bill is allowed to see her cry.

He is almost at the door; only a few more steps and the hardest part—the physical leaving part—will be over.

"Going somewhere, dear?"

He almost screams at the sound of that warm, familiar voice. Molly Weasley sits at the empty table, wreathed in shadows.

"I—" He doesn't know what to say. His intentions are clear from the suitcase he still holds.

"At least have a cup of tea before you go; you have time, don't you?"

He does in fact have time. Years of international travel have worn away any desire for brinkmanship; he is always early.

He sits down. Molly pours the tea. It's all so commonplace, so achingly, painfully familiar; the brown ceramic pot, magically repaired more times than he can count, with its hand-knitted cosy almost breaks his heart.

"So, where are you headed?" She might be enquiring as to the weather, so calm is her tone. Her calm frightens him more than her wrath ever could.

"Kings Cross," he says, not meeting her eye, meticulously stirring sugar into his cup.

"Where to after that?" They might be discussing degnoming the garden for all the reaction she gives. He wonders if she has taken a Calming Draught.

"Paris," he says grudgingly, "I'm not sure after that."

They sip their tea in silence. Bill wonders how much, if anything, she knows.

"Where did you meet her?" Molly asks.

He lets out a sigh; she knows. It's possible that she's bluffing, but Molly Weasley never bluffs.

"At the bank. There was a problem with her vault. Some Dark artifact was interfering with the wards. I fixed it."

She looks at him steadily, no hint of accusation in her warm brown eyes. "Then what happened?"

He looks away. He hardly knows the answer himself. Images flash through his mind: a blond head buried in gloved hands as she desperately tries to conceal her tears, clandestine meetings, stolen kisses, hurried, yet passionate encounters ending each time in mutual recrimination. Finally, her haunted eyes as she clutched his fingers in hers; begged him to help her, to help them both.

He drums his fingers on the tabletop and fiddles with the dragon's tooth around his neck, which _she_ hates almost as much as his mother does.

"We fell in love."

Molly stares at him for several minutes. He thinks she will explode, that her famous temper will finally break free, that her shrieks will awaken the entire household and he'll be forced to flee the wrath of his whole family rather than sneaking away as he had planned. Instead, she calmly sips her tea.

"What about Fleur?"

Of course the question was coming. She thrusts her dagger at his Achilles heel.

"I still love her." He forces himself to meet the eyes of the woman who brought him into the world. He wants her to believe that somewhere, beyond what he is trying to do, her sane sensible son, the one who was Hogwarts Head Boy, is still hiding. He wants her to believe that there is still some good in him, despite his current course of action. He reaches out and takes her hand; it sits small and limp in his, like a dead bird. "It's not the same though, Mum. Fleur, she's not _the_ _one_ and she doesn't need me, not like—"

"We need you!" She whisper-shouts the words. "We _all_ need you here with us, as part of the family. Your love, your wedding—it gives us all hope, something to look forward to, something to believe in! Doesn't that mean _anything_ to you?"

"Of course it does." He squeezes her hand, wishing she would squeeze back "Just because I love her doesn't mean I love any of you less, but I have to do this. I have to protect her...Mum, I promised."

She pulls her hand away. "What about the promise you made to Fleur?"

"It's not the same." He shakes his head, willing her to understand.

She slumps back in her chair. He sees her then, really sees her—the strands of grey in her red hair, the lines of tiredness that bracket her nose and mouth. It almost brings tears to his eyes. He wishes he could take a paint brush and erase those lines like Muggles do in their newspapers. Instead, he knows he will only make her more sad.

"I'm sorry, Mum. I have to go." He stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the flagstones. He kisses her forehead. He wants her to hold him, but she remains motionless, as responsive as a statue, her warmth extinguished. He turns to the door and only flinches briefly as her whispered " _Obliviate_ " hits him on the back of the head.

Draco glances at the station clock for the fifth time in as many minutes.

"He's late," he says sharply, his grey eyes narrowed with displeasure, his too-thin frame huddled in a heavy overcoat despite the season.

"He'll be here." Narcissa strives for serenity. She trusts him implicitly. He was the one who begged _her_ to leave, to come away and start a new life where he could keep her safe. When she had argued that she couldn't possibly leave her son, he had immediately said they would take him with them.

She had refused at first. There was no way Draco would consent to go with a Weasley. He was already in too deep, too embroiled in darkness, but it had been that very darkness which had forced her to act. Even if they had to _Stupefy_ him, Draco was coming with her; she would protect her son, even from himself.

Draco, however, had given in surprisingly quickly. She had seen the flash of hastily concealed hope in his eyes as she had presented him with a means of escape. She knew it had hurt him to leave his father, but she had convinced him, and herself, that it would be for the best. Lucius could no longer protect them; it was time they threw their lot in with a stronger wizard.

She paces a little, trying not to emulate Draco in looking up at the clock. He is fifteen minutes late. She checks her appearance in a tiny compact she keeps in her handbag. Her face is flawless, not a glimpse of her inner turmoil visible. She may be closer in age to her lover's mother than her lover himself, but she doesn't look it.

He is twenty minutes late and the Eurostar is boarding.

He is thirty minutes late and the conductor is calling for any passengers wishing to travel to board the train. She and Draco might never be able to escape the manor again. She looks longingly along the platform, scrutinising every face, hoping against hope to see a familiar shock of red hair hurrying towards them.

She thinks of what awaits her in the place she once called home - her insane sister, her broken husband, a madman and his sycophants. She takes Draco's arm and marches him onto the train. She realises the futility of depending on a man to protect her. She will do what she must to keep her son safe. The doors close, their soft thud punctuating her decision, and the Eurostar pulls out of the station, headed toward Paris. Narcissa Malfoy stares straight ahead. She will not look back at what she is leaving behind. She may not have what she hoped for, but she has everything she needs.


	4. In search of gainful employment

Written for round Twelve of the Quidditch League

Team: Pride of Portree

Chaser 1: write about Ron and Draco in an employer / employee relationship

Prompts: 7: (dialogue) I've forgotten what it's like to feel young, 12 (Phrase) a man is known by the company he keeps, 13: (object) blouse

Word count before author's note: 2993

With thanks to Oni, Sarah and Tee for all your Beta efforts - you guys are amazing!

 **A/N I've tried to stick to the Epilogue and Cursed Child canon as much as possible. Astoria still suffers from the blood curse which eventually kills her.**

* * *

 **In Search of Gainful Employment**

' _You have been offered a three month period of probation at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, 93 Diagon Alley.'_

Draco crumpled the sheet of parchment into a ball and tossed it in the fireplace.

"What utter rubbish. I wouldn't take that job if it was the last one on earth."

"It might as well be." Astoria removed the letter from the cold grate and smoothed it out again. "You're not going to be able to do anything else until you've served at least twelve months in a Ministry-approved post, you don't just need to complete the probation period — you need to make them like you enough to offer you a year long contract. It's this or indefinite house arrest."

"Fine, I'll stay under house arrest. The last five years haven't been so bad." Draco folded his arms across his chest and pouted.

"You've been miserable." She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. "And I've been miserable too. I want us to be together in the real world, Draco."

She placed her other hand on her belly. "I don't want to be standing all alone on Platform Nine and Three- Quarters in eleven years' time."

Two weeks later Draco was thoroughly regretting having capitulated so easily.

"What is this?" He poked at his uniform with the tip of his wand. "It looks like a blouse."

"It's not a blouse." Astoria shook out the offending item. "It's a floral shirt, some sort of Muggle synthetic I think." She examined the label.

Draco snatched it from her hands and flung it to the floor. "I'm not wearing a Muggle shirt."

"It's not a _Muggle_ shirt, urgh!—" Astoria threw up her hands in frustration and levitated one of Draco's silk dress shirts from the wardrobe. She painstakingly transfigured it into a perfect facsimile of the rejected uniform.

"That's perfect, thank you." Draco felt a little embarrassed at having thrown such a tantrum.

"No problem." Astoria reached up to tie his necktie. "It's okay to be nervous you know. You've barely been outside for five years; this must all seem a bit daunting."

"I'm not nervous," Draco scoffed.

He couldn't let Astoria see how terrified he truly was. She had stood by him through so much already spending five years confined almost entirely to his family home. She had accepted that they had never been on holiday together or even a date without a word of complaint.

He _had_ to do this, had to regain his freedom; for _her_.

"Of course you're not." She patted his chest, completely unaware of his inner conflict. "You know, if you give this job a chance you might actually like it, it could be fun playing around with jokes and tricks all day." She plucked ruefully at the patch of grey hairs over his left temple. "It might do you some good to feel young."

"I've forgotten what it's like to feel young," Draco groused as he quickly placed a glamour over his premature greys.

* * *

Ron watched Draco's progress along Diagon Alley from his vantage point in one of the upper windows. He realised he had never really seen Malfoy on his own before. At school, he had always been flanked by Crabbe and Goyle and during the war by hordes of Death Eaters, or at least his parents.

He looked smaller; somehow diminished. Ron almost felt a pang of sympathy for the solitary figure as it made its way toward the shop door. He quickly repressed the feeling, reminding himself that _this_ was Draco Malfoy: spoiled snob and former Death Eater; pity was the last thing he deserved.

He braced himself for the inevitable.

* * *

Draco hooked two fingers beneath the tie Astoria had insisted on tightening just a little too much and took several deep breaths before knocking on the door. Within seconds, it was pulled open and the Draco was confronted with the unwelcome glower of one Ronald Weasley.

"Malfoy."

"Weasley."

Neither spoke for a moment as the tension crackled in the air between them.

"I thought this was your brother's shop? Given you a Saturday job, has he?"

Weasley scowled. "Actually, Malfoy, I'm the co-manager, and I happen to be solely in charge for the next six months while my brother's on paternity leave."

He stood back to allow Draco entrance into the building.

"Most of the employees call me Ron, but you can call me Sir."

"I don't think so." Draco felt the colour rise in his cheeks as he prepared to verbally flay Weasley as he'd so often done at school; and then...he didn't.

Like it or not, this man was his boss and the last thing he wanted was to get himself fired on his first day. He thought of Astoria and lowered his chin.

"I look forward to working with you, Wea— _Sir_."

Weasley looked stunned.

"Er, great, well then...come in and I'll show you around."

Draco trailed after Weasley, trying his hardest not to gaze around in awe. The shop was truly amazing. The value of the stock the shelves carried must have been colossal.

He would not have been a true Malfoy if he were not impressed by wealth, and he would not have been a wizard were he not equally moved by the magical ability evident around him. The skill involved in developing and mass-producing some of the products was incredible. He began to think that perhaps working here wouldn't be so bad.

"Alright, show's over." Weasley handed him an elbow-length pair of rubber gloves. "The staff toilet's blocked; your first job is to sort that out."

Draco stared after his boss' retreating back. There was no denying it, the Weasel King had _really_ just ordered him to unblock a toilet and he _really_ was going to do it.

"For Astoria," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

For the next week Ron watched Malfoy like a hawk. He had promised Hermione to give the ferret a chance, no more than that. If the little blond ponce put so much as a toe out of line Ron would have him out of the shop faster than you could say _U-No-Poo_.

Much to his disappointment, Malfoy seemed equally desperate to keep his job. He had unblocked the toilet without complaint every day. As a result, stocks of _Toilet Tarantulae_ (guaranteed to create a blockage even your granny can't shift) were perilously low and Ron had to pay the suppliers overtime. He was going to have to step things up a gear if he wanted to force his childhood nemesis out.

At the beginning of his second week, he pulled Malfoy into the stockroom.

"Right, Malfoy, you've done a good job unblocking the toilet and making me cups of tea but it's time we put you to work doing something a little more useful."

A spark of interest lit in Malfoy's grey eyes and again, Ron almost felt a pang of pity. He squashed it down before it had time to take hold.

"These are _Metamorphmagus Mallows_." He held a box of pink and white sweets out, Malfoy took them with some reluctance "They temporarily transform you into your Animagus form. I need you to test one from each batch."

He gestured to an enormous pile of boxes.

"Give me a shout if you have any problems." He strolled away with an air of forced nonchalance which he quickly dropped as he sprinted to his hidden peephole just in time to witness Malfoy's first ignominious transformation.

In the end, Ron didn't manage to achieve much that day. It was too amusing watching Malfoy run around chasing beetles and occasionally urinating on the stock — Ron would get him to clean that mess up later. After Draco transformed back to his human form, he would spend a few minutes rocking on the floor before doggedly getting to his feet, taking down the next box of Mallows and beginning the process all over again.

Ron was still glued to the peephole when Hermione walked in carrying a clipboard and a brown paper bag.

"You forgot your lunch."

"Thanks." Ron smiled and stashed the bag away, not wanting to admit that he'd forgotten on purpose so he could enjoy fish and chips at the Leaky Cauldron rather than Hermione's sub-par sandwich-making efforts.

"No problem." She looked around. "Where's Malfoy?"

 _Probably rocking in a corner somewhere._ "In the stockroom, why do you ask?"

She patted her clipboard fondly. "I'm here on Ministry business; to do his initial check up. I'll start with you since he's not around. Has he exhibited any subversive behaviour?"

"No."

"Has he been punctual?"

"Yes."

"Has he willingly carried out his allotted tasks?"

Ron opened his mouth, wanting to say something damning and shut it again with a snap.

"He's been a model employee."

"Excellent, well if you don't mind I'll just go and ask him a few questions." She waddled off in the direction of the stock room, wincing a little with each step. Ron couldn't help but grit his teeth in sympathy, she had been suffering from back pain for weeks now and the healers didn't seem able to do anything about it.

He morosely ate his sandwich whilst waiting for his wife to emerge and all hell to break loose over his mistreatment of Malfoy. He was surprised when the two appeared together. Hermione was actually laughing.

"Thanks, Malfoy." She touched his arm gently. "I'll see you at your six-week check."

She pecked Ron on the cheek and bustled out of the store her clipboard firmly fixed under one arm.

"What did you say to her?" Ron fought the urge to pin Malfoy against the wall by his lapels.

His employee gave a nonchalant shrug. "Why nothing but the truth, _Sir_. I told her that I had been given free rein to work on domestic spells and I was now a valued member of the product testing team. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with a box of _Metamorphmagus Mallows_." He strolled back toward the stockroom as if he didn't expect to be turned into a ferret at least four more times that day.

* * *

At the end of the month, Draco was surprised when Ron handed him a brown envelope. "What's this?" He shook it suspiciously.

"It's your payslip. The money goes directly into your Gringott's account but this lets you know how much you've earned. "

Draco ignored his employer's patronising look and tore open the envelope. He'd never earned wages before; it was a good feeling. He frowned as he began to add up the columns in front of him.

"Hold on a minute—" He looked up at Weasley "—my pay's been docked almost every day."

"That's because you're almost always late."

"But I stay behind at the end of the day; I was here until seven yesterday."

"Overtime is only paid when authorised by the manager." Weasley stuck his chest out in a belligerent manner. He was just waiting, Draco realised, waiting for an excuse to sack him. Well, he wouldn't give him one. He placed the wage slip back in its envelope.

"I'll try to be more punctual in future, Sir."

* * *

The final week of August was the busiest of the year as Hogwarts students and their parents mobbed the Alley. Even Draco had been allowed out of the back room to help with the crush of willing customers. He had proved himself to be an able salesman. Far from sneering at the products, he seemed to delight in demonstrating them and Ron had noticed quite an increase in revenue from the previous year. Ron watched, flabbergasted, as for the third time that day Draco willingly consumed a _Canary Cream_. He shook off his feathers grinning unreservedly at the crowd of students who surrounded him and proudly carryied their enormous piles of purchases to the till.

"This is bloody brilliant," he crowed as he rang up sale after sale. "I can't remember when I last had this much fun...actually, I don't think I've _ever_ had this much fun!" As soon as the money had changed hands he threw himself back into the melee, gleefully rubbing _Out to Lunch Fake Moustache_ on his eyebrows until they had doubled in size.

By the end of the day, the whole team was exhausted and Ron planned to lead the triumphant workers to the Leaky Cauldron for a celebratory pint. He noticed Malfoy hang back as the others picked up their belongings.

"You coming, Malfoy?" he asked casually.

The other wizard hesitated before nodding resolutely. "As long as you're buying, Weasley."

He only stayed for one drink and sat quietly in the corner, not really taking part in the conversation. Still, Ron could safely go home that night and tell Hermione he'd been to the pub with Draco Malfoy. Speaking of Hermione; he felt in his pocket for the tiny vial Malfoy had given him.

"Astoria's pregnant too," he said, avoiding Ron's eyes as he spoke. "She gets terrible hip pain. Mother recommended this. It's pretty hard to get hold of, but I can find some more if it's helpful."

He slipped out of the pub before Ron could even decide whether to thank him or not.

* * *

Draco was in the stock room sorting through a shipment of Fanged Frisbees, some had been returned after they had bitten the fingers off their owners. Draco's task was to sort out the rogue frisbees from the merely frisky ones. He was so engrossed in his task that he almost didn't notice Weasley enter holding a slip of parchment.

"Letter for you. In future, try to keep the correspondence to outside working hours, right?"

"Sorry," Draco apologised automatically. As he read the note, he felt his stomach drop into his boots.

"I have to go." He stared at Weasley in panic.

"What? Go where? It's only half past three."

"To St Mungo's, it's Astoria. There's — there's something wrong. She's not well." He began to concentrate, preparing to Apparate.

"Calm down." Weasley placed a surprisingly firm hand on his shoulder. " The shop security doesn't allow Apparition and you'll splinch yourself in this state anyway. You can use our Floo connection."

Draco could hardly think as he followed Weasley out of the stockroom. Astoria had been hospitalised by the curse once before; she had hardly pulled through that time and she hadn't even been pregnant. What if—"

"Here we are." Weasley's voice cut through his internal monologue. The ginger wizard took a pinch of Floo Powder and threw it into the fire. "St Mungo's hospital," he said clearly before he pushed Draco into the fire.

* * *

Four days later, Ron was opening the shop when Malfoy appeared in the doorway. He was even paler and skinnier looking than usual.

"I suppose I'm sacked," he said.

Ron frowned. "You think I'd sack you for taking a few days off when your wife was ill? What sort of a bastard do you think I am?"

Malfoy didn't answer but gave a relieved half smile and headed in the direction of the stockroom.

"Malfoy wait!"

He looked wearily over his shoulder.

"It's going to be quiet today, so why don't you get some practice in on the till? Terry can do product testing."

Malfoy stopped in his tracks. "Thanks," he said after a long silence.

A few weeks later Ron opened an official looking letter from the Ministry. It informed him that his employee, Draco Malfoy, had reached the end of his probationary period. Either he or Ron was now free to terminate their contract of employment without fear of persecution (provided Malfoy was immediately employed in another Ministry approved post).

Ron called Malfoy into his office.

"So, your probation period is up," he said bluntly. "If you want to go and work somewhere else you are free to do so."

Malfoy gave Ron his most arrogant stare, although the effect was slightly ruined by the dried vomit which stained his shirt; he had accidentally ingested a _Puking Pastille_ whilst putting together a batch of Unlucky Dips.

"I suppose you'd prefer it if I found a job elsewhere." He dabbed ineffectually at the sick.

Ron shrugged. "Well, you know, whatever. You're trained up now, seems a bit of a waste to have to show somebody else the ropes."

"Yeah right." Malfoy looked out the window. "Well it would be equally difficult for me to find my way around a new job, so I suppose, I'll just stick it out here then."

"Yeah, cool."

"Fine." Draco turned on his heel and left the office as fast as humanly possible without breaking into a run.

"You know," Ron said to Hermione, as he cradled their two-month-old daughter in his arms,"Malfoy isn't actually as bad as I thought he would be."

Hermione laughed. "Well, of course, he isn't."

"How can you say that after all the stuff he said to you in school?"

Hermione paused in the act of folding baby clothes to look fondly at her husband.

"Because, in school, Draco was stuck with all the wrong people. His father, spewing pureblood supremacy at every turn. His classmates, all looking up to him and treating him like he was something special. Crabbe and Goyle, willing to do whatever he wanted. No wonder he was a spoiled little toerag."

She reached out to take Rose who had begun to grizzle.

"Now he has a lovely wife, he interacts with customers every day doing something that he's good at, and he has a wonderful boss who gives people a chance even when he doesn't think they deserve it."

She leaned over to kiss his nose. "We're the product of the people around us, Ron, and these days Malfoy's keeping pretty good company, no wonder he's turned out to be a decent human being."

Ron smiled, feeling a surge of pride. "He really has," he agreed. "You know, I might even give him a raise."


	5. Hair

A/N Written for Finals, round 1 of the Quidditch League.

I chose to write about _Beard Trimming_ \- the Knockturn Alley barbers and its shopkeeper Podric Batworthy XXIII. My fic is a little bit AU as I have changed some of the Horcrux hunt. The inspiration for Podric's journey comes from the song The Boxer.

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: CHASER 1 - Write about a shopkeeper in Knockturn Alley

Prompts:

9 - no dialogue tags

12 - The Boxer

14 - (Quote) Money is the root of all money

Word count excluding authors note: 2538

Thank you to my lovely teammates and beta readers: Oni, Sarah and Tee

* * *

 **Hair**

"Attend to me now, man— I need a cut and a shave and I don't have all day."

Lucius Malfoy swaggered across my shop in a swirl of heavily embroidered robes, expensive cologne, and glinting rings. He dropped into an unoccupied chair, his eyes fixed adoringly on his reflection. He paid no heed to the elderly gentleman, upon whose face I had just worked up a rich lather. I, however, muttered an apology as I wiped away the soap. My usurped customer gave me an understanding nod and slipped quietly from the shop. Malfoy was not a man anyone would choose to cross.

To tell the truth, I was surprised to see him. True, the depths of Knockturn Alley had always been something of a safe haven for Death Eaters and my shop, _Beard Trimming_ , was, in particular, a favourite haunt. Nonetheless, Malfoy was a wanted man.

With an eagerness I could not deny, I crossed the shop and buried my fingers between the strands of Malfoy's abundant hair. Hair has always been my gift. It speaks to me in the same way that others might read a palm or interrogate the night sky. Malfoy's hair was something else. Thick and lustrous and unfeasibly straight; it seemed alive to my touch. As if each strand were a thin, gossamer snake winding itself sinuously about my fingers. I could feel his power through that hair, but more than that, I could feel his history. Generations of pureblood pedigree somehow transmitted itself from his hair to my hands. It was heady, electrifying, uncanny.

"Just a trim; you took far too much off last time."

I ignored him as I began to comb through his already sleek strands. My customers came for the ritual as much as the end result. I could feel Malfoy moving imperceptibly closer to my hands; had he been a cat he might have purred. It was not my role to speak unless asked a direct question. But this did not stop me from listening.

I owed Malfoy a great deal, although he was not aware of the debt and would undoubtedly have taken advantage of it if he were. It was from him that I learned how to make my way in the Wizarding World.

When I first arrived in Diagon Alley, having run away from my Muggle parents when my rapidly manifesting magic became too much for them to deal with, I had no idea of who or what I was. Deposited at the Leaky Cauldron by the Knight bus; I somehow stumbled into the wizarding world. It was not kind to me. Despite asking for only the barest of wages I found no employment and I was reduced to pickpocketing and begging in Knockturn Alley. The making of money is relatively easy when one has money to begin with. I believe, with a little effort Lucius Malfoy could double his fortune overnight. Not so I; when one's entire fortune constitutes no more than a few Knuts, it is rather difficult to make that money work for you.

Malfoy became my favourite target. I had never met a man so unaware of the contents of his purse. He was a regular customer at _Borgin and Burkes_ and I was a regular customer of his. As I stalked him through the dark and dingy streets, I gained more from him than just coin. I overheard his expensive aristocratic tones talking endlessly of pureblood supremacy and the dirtiness of Muggle blood. It was from him that I first gleaned an understanding, however warped, of Wizarding society. And it was through him; when he eventually caught me with my hand in his pocket, that I was given my first position. I had been a naive fool to believe that I observed Malfoy without being observed in return. He had simply allowed me to steal from him in order to scrutinise my behaviour, and in me, he saw something that he believed was worth recruiting.

"I have a job for you boy." His fingers had gripped my arm so tightly I believe I still bear the bruises some twenty years later. He deposited me at the feet of the owner of _Beard Trimming_. "This one has talent." He never extrapolated on what that talent might be, but over the years I realised that there was much more to being a barber's apprentice in Knockturn Alley than trimming beards and cutting hair.

Our trade was, in many ways, merely a cover for the true commodity we brokered; information. There was not a secret told in all of Diagon Alley of which we were not aware. There was no truth that could not be revealed by a good head massage and the therapeutic scrape of the razor against bristles. I cast aside my Muggle identity and assumed the name of Podric Batworthy XIII. My pureblood family had fallen on hard times and I had come to London to seek my fortune. The lie was easily swallowed. Those who pay for information are often little interested in the identity of the informant.

When my Hogwarts letter finally came I ripped it to shreds and cast it into the fire. My master must have taken care of any further correspondence, I certainly did not receive multiple summons as was the case many years later for the famous Harry Potter. I knew that I would learn all I needed from my master and I remained his apprentice for ten years. I saw the rise and fall of Voldemort; far enough removed from the action to have nothing to fear when the aurors came to my door. I knew of Peter Pettigrew's perfidy perhaps even before he knew himself. I knew of Sybill Trelawney's prophecy and Severus Snape's great love. There was little I did not know and even less I would not sell, as long as the price was right.

Finally, my master retired and I took over the shop. Malfoy remained a regular customer. I could never get enough of the feeling of his hair between my fingers. I saved every lock I cut. I did that for all my clients. One never knew when a hair might be required, for Polyjuice, or a darker potion. I had enough of Lucius that I could have lived out my life as the man had I so wished. Yet, it was not sufficient. His hair, even detached from his head, was imbued with the same magic and I kept every lock; jealously squirreled away in the storage room in my shop.

Not everyone's hair was so pleasant to touch. Thorfin Rowle was as blond as Malfoy but his magic was as thick and coarse as his hair. Every time my hands wandered across his scalp I felt somehow intellectually diminished, as if his magic clogged the blood vessels of my brain.

I would go to any length to avoid touching Severus Snape, and it was not the grease that put me off. Touching Snape was like touching a dead man. There was nothing there; no power, no personality, no history. When I ran my fingers through his hair I felt as if I might be sucked into a vacuum — a deep bottomless void from which I might never escape. Snape seemed to take no more pleasure in my touch than I did in touching him. By mutual agreement, he came to me only for information.

The only person whose hair I reviled more than that of Snape was Bellatrix Lestrange. She was my only female customer and I swear she knew the effect she had on me. She would ask not just for her hair to be washed and cut, but for the most intricate of styles; necessitating my hands to be in her hair for hours at a time. I would have been a fool to deny her, but the feeling of her magic: wild and elemental and insane was almost enough to drive me to insanity, too. After her visits, I would retreat upstairs to my flat and huddle in front of the fire as I tried to force the coldness of her soul from my mind.

I considered the Death Eaters my people. They had raised me better than my own parents had. If I had any loyalty, it was to them, and it rarely crossed my mind that the information I sold so freely would have repercussions beyond the cobblestones of Knockturn Alley.

Almost a year after Lucius Malfoy had unwisely risked a return to Azkaban in order to have me cut his hair, I was surprised by the entrance of a new customer. She came in not through the front door, but from the private Apparition point at the back of the shop. It was a location known to only only a few of the Dark Lord's inner circle. I had never seen her before, but she seemed strangely familiar as she settled herself in one of my chairs.

"Just a trim please." Her voice was clear and confident. She betrayed not a hint of fear. She might as well have taken a seat at one of the high-end salons that littered London's Bond Street.

It was as I regarded her hair that I realised who she was. Indeed, her picture looked out over my shop from the wanted poster pinned to the cork noticeboard. Wild bushy chestnut curls framed a small, thin face from beneath the epitaph 'Undesirable Number 2.' She was Potter's Mudblood, of that there could be no doubt. Had I been in possession of a Dark Mark I would undoubtedly have been pressing my wand against it in order to summon the Dark Lord. But, in spite of my allegiances, I was no Death Eater— I was a barber and a spy. Before I could do anything else I simply had to plunge my fingers into her hair.

Never had I experienced anything so sweet as the sensation of Hermione Granger's magic washing over my skin. Her hair was so long and thick that it covered my arms right up to the elbows, and as it did I was engulfed in the essence of her. I could feel a glorious clarity of thought; an intelligence so keenly sharp that it almost made my head hurt, but in the opposite way from Bellatrix Lestrange's twisted virtues hit me, one after the other, like the first cool splash of water on my face after a long nights sleep; integrity, faith, hope, joy, and love. Most of all I could feel love. Her capacity for love was humbling in its magnitude. She loved her friends,her family, justice, and learning. Arching above all of these and underpinning her entire being was her love of magic. Despite her status as a lowly Muggle born witch, she loved the entire magical world with a fierce and heart-wrenching optimism.

I had never touched a Muggleborn's hair before. Severus Snape was the only half-blood I had knowingly laid my hands on, and perhaps I had foolishly assumed that it was only pureblood wizards who could convey their entire self through the magic contained within their hair.

I pulled my hands reluctantly away from her and reached for my comb.

"I understand that you know things." Her brown eyes regarded me calmly in the mirror.

"That is correct." I ran the comb through her hair enjoying the way her magic washed over the backs of my hands.

"This is a fake." She held up her right hand and opened it; a tarnished gold locket with a glittering emerald S on the front tumbled out to hang from the chain looped around her finger. "Do you know where the real one is?"

We both watched the locket swing slowly back and forth through the suddenly stagnant air. The comb in my hands had stilled, unconsciously, my fingers crept back into her hair.

Of course I knew where the locket was. More than that, I knew _what_ it was. From there it wasn't much of a jump to know what she wanted it for; uneducated is not the same as stupid, after all. I knew where my loyalties lay. I owed everything to the men who had shaped me, had allowed me my livelihood, my very life. I had chosen my side. I wrapped a coil of her thick hair around my fist. The sensation was intoxicating.

"It will cost you this much." I lifted the hank of hair so she could see it in the mirror.

She met my eyes and nodded solemnly. I took my scissors and closed them across the hair above my fist. It was so thick and wiry that it was almost impossible to cut. I opened and closed the blades, almost in a sawing motion, not caring that I tore at the hair still attached to her scalp; only wishing to possess some of that perfect magic for myself.

Finally, the hank around my fist dropped free, I raised it to my nose and inhaled, as if I could breathe in her very essence.

"Dolores Umbridge has the locket you seek, she took it from a man named Mundungus Fletcher."

Her eyes widened momentarily before she nodded once more.

"Thank you for the haircut." She got to her feet and opened her purse. "What do I owe you?"

"This one is on the house." I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering to the wanted poster in my window. She was worth five thousand galleons! It was more money than I could fathom. My fingers tightened around the hair I had taken from her. Her gaze followed mine to the wanted poster, yet still she did not flinch. Instead, she walked slowly back to the Apparition point. I followed her as if drawn by an invisible cord. She hesitated in the gloomy interior of the shop, her small hands clutching at the wand I hadn't even seen her draw.

"I suppose you know what we're doing." It was a statement rather than a question and I didn't respond. In my experience the more you remain quiet the more people are likely to talk. "The war will be over soon." She fixed me once more with her direct gaze. "It's not too late for you to choose the right side."

Before I could even begin to think of a response she was gone.

* * *

It took me two weeks to pack up my shop. I had to do it covertly, of course. I wasn't a branded Death Eater but my allegiances were well known. It's not as if you can simply give up your subscription and let your membership lapse; once you belong to Voldemort you _belong_ to Voldemort. Finally, I was ready, my most treasured belongings shrunken and packed into a single suitcase; my hard won earnings concealed in a Gringotts account opened in my real name. I left Knockturn Alley behind forever and Apparated to Hogsmeade and the Hogs Head Inn. I knew who I was looking for and I knew what I had to offer. I might have been leaving behind the people who had made me, but I took with me the weapon I had become.


	6. Who ever loved that loved not

QLFC semi finals

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompts: A fluffy story using the prompt 'hate' (emotion) OR an angsty story using the prompt 'love' (emotion)

Optional prompts: 1. (emotion) Cynical 8. If you get me this broom, I might reconsider 14. Lovely

A/N: Cynical: concerned only with one's own interests and typically disregarding accepted standards in order to achieve them. At first I planned for Lockhart to be the one displaying cynicism in this story - he's always struck me as a rather cynical character, but I feel now that he and Penelope behave in an equally cynical manner. The story is set during Penelope's sixth year when she would feasibly by sixteen which is the legal age for consent and marriage in UK Muggle society.

Thanks to my team captain Oni for beta reading.

 **Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?**

She hadn't realised that walking into Flourish and Blotts that day would change her entire life. She would have described herself as stoically sensible; pragmatic and enterprising with just a little of the cold and calculating nature that her house was known for. Love at first sight was not for her. It was the sort of stumble that a bold Gryffindor or a trusting Hufflepuff might make. Tumbling blindly over that fatal precipice of human emotion without thought or due consideration for the consequences of one's actions seemed unforgivably foolish to her. Ravenclaws did not _fall_ in love. They might eventually deign to step gingerly, if it seemed like a mutually beneficial proposition, but there was nothing careful or reciprocal about Penelope's sudden descent into complete infatuation and it took her more than a little by surprise.

Of course, she had known who he was. Even a witch as bright as Penelope occasionally made time to read _Witch Weekly,_ and who could miss the endless centrefolds dedicated to the winner of its Most-Charming-Smile-Award? What she hadn't known was the devastating effect _that_ smile would have once its full wattage was turned in her direction. It was a weapon of mass destruction and Penelope crumpled before it in shock and awe.

She was not alone in her infatuation. Whilst the newly appointed Professor Lockhart might not be popular amongst the boys or the faculty members Penelope could see that amongst the female students there was strong competition for his favour. Yet, right from the outset Penelope felt a strange sense of calm. Whilst she ought to have been perturbed by her competition she disregarded them almost entirely. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that this beautiful, charming, clever, brave, lovely man would one day be hers and with that certainty came a sort of serenity which perhaps allowed her to succeed where others had failed.

She began her campaign of seduction during the first week of the autumn term. She was subtle. So much more so than her peers. Her feelings were manifest in the tiniest of touches; the merest whisper of skin against skin as she handed over her assignments. She was not so gauche as to hitch up her skirt or leave her blouse partially unbuttoned. She left these unsubtle devices to her peers. She preferred to display the fine bones of her wrists and the extension of a well-rounded calve as she crossed her legs demurely beneath her desk. She refused to make cows eyes at her teacher or to answer his questions with breathless enthusiasm. They communicated in stolen glances, hers half obscured by her long wavy hair, his increasingly more curious as time went on. Her responses were measured, thoughtful, mature, but her attitude charmingly deferential without a hint of sycophancy.

It was a masterful campaign and by Christmas she had succeeded where others had failed. Their first kiss was in an empty classroom. Rather ironically, she had spent the previous evening in the same classroom in the arms of Percy Weasley (dear, sweet Percy) wishing all the while that the hair she'd run her fingers through was blond and silky instead of ginger and wiry and that the arms that so enthusiastically held her belonged not to a boy, but to the man she truly longed for.

She and Lockhart had exchanged meaningless platitudes. There had been a brief attempt on his part to reprimand her for her presence in his classroom after curfew. Her declaration that she was no longer a child and should not be held to such standards was tacitly understood and before long she had found herself in the arms of the man she loved. The significance was not lost on her and she trembled with the magnitude of this; the realisation of her dreams.

His chambers were exactly as she might have imagined. They were lavish and opulent; a true reflection of the man himself and she spent the night wrapped in the splendour of his magnificent feather eiderdown and the undiverted regard of the object of her affections.

In the grey light of early dawn she awoke to see her lover standing at the foot of the bed. He was already dressed and was carefully styling his shining hair encouraged by a litany of compliments from the full length enchanted mirror.

"Ah, my dear, you're finally awake. I had thought you were going to sleep the entire morning away."

Penelope glanced at the gilded clock on the bedside table.

"It's only 6:30." She wished he would come back to bed.

"Precisely! There should be plenty of time for you to make it back to your dormitory before your nosey roommates are up and about. We can't have anybody discovering our little secret can we?"

"I suppose not." Penelope climbed reluctantly out of her nest of blankets and began to pull on her clothes. Her brain, saturated with endorphins in response to Lockhart's presence nonetheless slowly began to creak into gear. It would not do for her to be seen leaving his chambers. If their transgression were discovered it would lead to his dismissal and her expulsion.

"May I come back this evening?" She looked imploringly up at him.

"My dear girl, don't be absurd." He pressed a kiss against the knuckles of her right hand as if to take the sting from his words. "Last night's transgression was foolhardy in the extreme, you must see that." His blue eyes shone with sincerity; she could drown in those eyes. "If we were to be discovered my career would be at an end. Just imagine the headline." He gazed off into the middle distance "Celebrated author and Honorary member of the Dark Force Defence League, Gilderoy Lockhart caught in flagrante with Hogwarts student! It just wouldn't do. No, my dear, whilst it breaks my heart to do so, I must set you free, ours is a love that from this day forth must be forbidden."

Her heart broke at his words. She could not doubt his sincerity; she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved her just as much as she did him and yet there was no way they could be together. Like Romeo and Juliet their fate was written in the stars, there would be no happy ending.

She would never know how she lived through the next few months. Having tasted the forbidden fruit, every other flavour was now bitter on her tongue. Seeing Lockhart every day, hearing his golden laugh and watching him flirt with her peers was the equivalent of stabbing herself repeatedly in the heart with a rusty dagger. She felt as if at any moment she might perish from sheer misery at their enforced separation. She knew that his own suffering must be just as great as hers; how could he feel otherwise? Yet, he hid it far better than she. He seemed as happy and carefree as the day he had arrived at Hogwarts.

And then he was gone. Quite suddenly and with minimal fanfare, he disappeared from the school and from her life as if he had never been there. There were plenty of rumours, but the staff remained close lipped regarding the true nature of Lockhart's departure. Some said he had been eaten by the monster in the Chamber of Secrets, others that he had been killed by an irate Harry Potter after the Boy Who Lived had been asked to assist with his fan mail one time too often. Penelope had no more insight than her peers into his disappearance but she knew in her heart that Lockhart would only be parted from her under extreme duress.

She sometimes felt like a ghost haunting the halls of the school. She made a show of continuing with her old life. She smiled and laughed along with her friends, continued to meet Percy in abandoned classrooms and regularly turned in perfect assignments, but she felt as if a piece of her was missing. Her heart was as cold and inaccessible as the moon and not even the horrors of the coming war could truly touch her.

When school was finally over, she found her plans to marry Percy sudden unpalatable. It had all seemed so perfect. Both of them taking on the ministry together, supporting each other in their successful careers until she took the inevitable break to produce the requisite number of Weasley children. But in the end, she couldn't do it. Her infatuation had not faded over the years of their separation. She woke each morning with his name on her lips; Lockhart's face was indelibly carved on her very soul and she could no more marry Percy Weasley than she could stop loving her ex-teacher. She let Percy down as gently as she could and, at the suggestion of her parents who feared the current political climate, she went to University in Salem where she studied to be a healer.

She fainted when she saw him. Actually fainted; dropped to the floor like a _Stupefied_ Niffler. It was embarrassing in the extreme; not least as it was her first day as the new matron of the Janus Thickey ward and fainting in front of her entire staff had not been how she intended to introduce herself.

After one of the junior healers had brought her round with a considerate _Rennervate_ she had feigned unconsciousness for several seconds as she processed the sudden reappearance in her life her of her one true love.

It had to be fate. There was no other possible explanation for their being reunited in such an unexpected manner. It soon became clear to Penelope that her true destiny was to restore Gilderoy Lockhart to his former glory in order that they might finally be together. She spent every spare moment in his room. Whilst each morning they would start their relationship anew, Penelope quickly learned the shortcuts by which she could quickly access his heart, and by dusk he would often weep to see her leave. He was, in some ways, even more perfect than he had been before. Previously he had been distracted from her by the demands of his illustrious career. He had used his sense of professional obligation to push her aside, no matter what his heart might have told him. Here, in the spell damage ward, he was not constrained by such barriers. He was free to love her as fully as he had always wished to. Each day he would develop a deep regard for her and some evenings he would cry pitifully when she left him.

After months of fruitless research it became clear to Penelope that that Lockhart's memories were lost forever. Perhaps they remained somewhere locked up deep inside of him but it would take a healer more skilled than any who worked in St Mungo's to retrieve them. In all honesty, Penelope was not sure she wanted him to regain all of his faculties. In some ways this was better. Here, in the peace of the spell damage ward, Lockhart belonged solely to her.

But she wanted more.

It took months of planning. She laboriously set her affairs in order and consorted with the most undesirable of the shady characters who inhabited the bowels of Knockturn Alley in order to procure the paperwork she needed. Finally, she was ready.

On the appointed morning, she had requested annual leave from work and slipped quietly into the hospital through a side entrance. She made it unobserved into one of the public toilets where she uncapped a small bottle and drained the contents. The pain was indescribable as her delicate bones twisted and reformed and her skin seemed to boil as it moulded temporarily into her new persona. She bore the agony with stoic determination, was this not just another trial which she had to overcome in order to be with the man she loved? Ten minutes later, she stepped confidently into the foyer and approached the front desk brandishing a scroll.

Lockhart was staring aimlessly out of the window when she arrived in his room.

"Gilderoy!" she cried out as she entered and threw her arms around him.

He hugged her back automatically. "Hello." He put his head charmingly to one side. "Who are you?"

"I'm your wife, Gilderoy, don't you remember?"

"My wife? What a peculiar thing, I don't remember having one of those. In that case though, perhaps you can help me."

"Help you how?" Penelope gestured to the orderly who had guided her to Lockhart's room indicating that he could now leave. "It's taken me forever to track you down, my darling, I had no idea you were here."

"How terrible," he responded vaguely. "Now listen, they're keeping me captive here, if you could just get hold of a broom I believe I could escape out of this window." He gestured enthusiastically toward the small barred window.

"Aren't you pleased to see me?" She took his face in her hands and pressed her lips against his, delighting in the feel of his skin against hers after ten years of enforced abstinence.

"Not really," Lockhart pulled away from her looking slightly affronted, "but if you get me this broom, I might reconsider."

"Oh my darling, she couldn't stop herself from embracing him again, don't you understand? You don't need a broom, you're coming home with me!"

It had all worked out better than Penelope could ever have imagined. They made their home in a tiny village in Massachusetts. To their neighbours they were Mr and Mrs Lockhart the respected healer and her heroic husband who had suffered irreversible spell damage saving a small boy from a giant snake. She had no time to miss her friends and family. Gilderoy filled her entire life and in return she was his. Every morning she awoke to _Witch Weekly's_ Most-Charming-Smile and if perhaps this version of Lockhart was somehow less than the man she had fallen in love with, Penelope found that she actually preferred him this way. There were no distractions now; no books to sign, no monsters to fight, no lessons to teach or nubile schoolgirls to admire. Lockhart's world now revolved around her, just as hers had revolved around him from the first moment she had laid eyes on him.


End file.
